Postcards of Grief

Mourning is a process.

Comments on breast cancer by proxy, written by a woman coping with the loss of her mother.

Monday, March 01, 2004

Everyday cashmere

Iff home = the house I own,
then I am home.

Last weekend, we went shopping at the yuppy mall, and aside from being sneered at in front of the jewelry counter, it went pretty well. I had fun. I bought things I didn't exactly need but of which I could make good, practical use—a black belt, bergamot body spray, and some new stuff for the bathroom. This past Saturday and Sunday, Paul and Dad did a lot of work around the house, and I'm truly thrilled with the results. Some of it is as mundane as putting a new anode rod in the water heater, but all of it is wonderful and useful and noticeable. Some even involves moving and buying furniture, and for that, I am enthusiastic.

The sadness is more consuming now that I am home. I want to call Mom. I wonder if she called, and then I remember that she most definitely has not. I'm trying to make a few changes so that I'm not in the routine of work, home, work, train, the other home, work, train, home, work, and so on. It helps that Brooke got a new job, and thus, my work transportation situation has changed. Last Thursday, I was looking forward to coming back to work, but Saturday and yesterday, I wasn't so sure.

However, I had to guess how ready I would ever feel to come back. Knowing that staying off the horse any longer would make it that much harder to get back on—that is, knowing that neurotic and working is better than neurotic and bored, I came back. So now, here I am, answering questions and providing alternative solutions, setting up tables to study the minute details of the esoteric and locating people at the farthest edges of civilization who are doing highly specialized work in highly specialized subjects. I do love my job, even if I am considering another field.


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